


Haunted

by Funkspiel



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Alpha Gellert Grindelwald, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Beta Percival Graves turns into Omega Percival Graves, Beta to omega, Blow Jobs, Cock Shrinking, Cock Worship, Human to Omega Transformation, Large Cock, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Omega Original Percival Graves, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sex Magic, Shrinking Dick, Small Penis, Transformation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-03
Updated: 2018-03-01
Packaged: 2019-03-12 22:24:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13556835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Funkspiel/pseuds/Funkspiel
Summary: Percival Graves has served as a cameraman on a prominent "ghost hunting" show for years now and never - not once - have they found a REAL haunted location.Until now.





	1. Reality or Fiction?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MercurialTenacity](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MercurialTenacity/gifts).



Percival Graves doesn’t quite know _how_ he ended up where he was, to be quite honest. He hadn’t gone to school for this - _hell, how does someone go to school for this?_ Ghost hunting. It was a laughable notion, to be honest, but unfortunately _it paid._ _Nicely._

So that’s how he went from going to school for audio and visual forensics to serving as an impromptu cameraman and “evidence” reviewer for a show called _Paranormal Seekers_.

Needless to say, he’s been to a lot of “haunted” houses. Old, run down buildings. Hotels still being used in the public. Bars, pubs, train stations, hospitals. You name it, he’s probably spent a night or two in it trying to “document” ghosts. He’s never experienced anything, though. Oh they _show_ activity happening. Slick tricks with thin wires and shaky cam footage. VO recorded in studio to slide in after pre-designed “reaction” events. It was a rather boring job, honestly.

Until, that was, the host was replaced. Things changed after that.

Newt and Theseus Scamander are a dynamic duo and the public eats them up. They’re passionate, and unlike their prior host, they wholeheartedly believe in a realm of life outside that of this mortal coil. All gag tricks end with their takeover. No more strings or pre-recordings or tampered tech. And despite the fact that the amount of activity per episode plummets from copious to nearly non-existent, the fans adore them. They trust them.

Ratings and viewership has never been higher. They have a fanbase, and not only that, somehow they’ve developed credibility. Their evidence might not be exciting, but the lack of tampering shows because of it. So even if all they have to show is one whisper, the fans _believe_ it.

Their locations change drastically too.

No more local venues willing to pay them so that their location shows up on TV, ghost or no ghost. No - Newt and Theseus hand select the locations themselves. They stick strictly to abandoned places off the very well beaten roads of TV paranormal investigation. And on the rare occasions where they select a publicly occupied building, it is always a home and it is always a family that they are helping.

So when Graves arrives at a huge plantation home deep in the swamps of the south, he isn’t surprised by its remoteness, the lack of light or the utter decrepitness of the home itself. What he is surprised by, however, is the feel of it.

It towers over him when he exits the van, and the moment he steps foot in its shadow he shivers. It’s a three floor manor. Bigger than any plantation home he has ever seen. According to Newt, it will be the biggest location in the show’s history, even prior to the brothers joining the show. Nearly a dozen bedrooms, a library, a dried up _indoor_ pool, a ballroom, a study, two kitchens — it’s ridiculous by most historic standards, but evidently the manor had once been converted into a luxury hotel before _events_ caused customers to stop visiting and the business went under.

Its lights are long since dead. The yard is overgrown, the drive is ruined. And yet, when they go inside, the interior is largely unharmed. Old, yes. Dusty, of course. But there is not structural damage, nor pillaging or theft or graffiti. In fact it is barren of most hallmarks of an abandoned building, and Graves can’t help but find that odd. The crew agrees, it seems, because everyone takes a moment to circle the manor-turned-hotel’s entryway, heads craning to take in the twinkling crystal chandelier and the golden wall sconces and the huge portrait atop the mirrored twisting staircase at the end of the room. Each scuffed footstep reveals a glossy floor beneath the disturbed dust, and all in all, it is gorgeous despite its filth.

“The curtains are still whole,” Theseus mutters in aw, pulling one away from the window to take in the quality of the fabric. “How long has it been again, Newt?”

“Too long,” Newt mumbles back absentmindedly as he swipes a line of dust from the glossy top of the piano in the sitting room over. “Shall we start?”

“We discussed this, Newt,” Tina says, the show’s second camera operator. “It was a long drive. Everyone gets to actually _sleep_ tonight. We’ll spend tomorrow setting up the building with cameras and audio, and start the official investigation tomorrow.”

Newt pouts, but it quickly turns into a yawn and even he - passionate and excited as he is - can’t help but admit it’s the best course of action.

“Alright. Everyone go ahead and claim rooms, get settled. We’ll all connect in the morning.”

A generator and portable water heater means at least two people get to shower that night, two others in the morning. Graves lets Tina and the brothers duke it out over dibs on the shower that night. His bones feel as though they’re made of lead all of a sudden, and he’d rather shower in the morning anyway considering how much dust he’s going to be inevitably rolling in - sleeping bag or not.

He passes them as he heads for a room - any room, he really doesn’t give a damn - and expects to hear them bickering over shower rights and how long the water will last. Instead, he finds them messing with the doorknob of the largest room.

“It’s locked.” Theseus says.

“That’s… really weird. Didn’t the bank say that all the rooms were accessible?” Tina asks.

“Yea, they did… Huh. Well I guess that solves that problem, _none_ of us get the master bedroom.”

“Probably for the best,” Newt says lightly, a towel over one shoulder after already having slipped toward the shower while the other two were distracted.

“Yea—hey!”

Graves leaves the inevitable fight behind him. Instead he picks a room at the end of the hall, likely deeper into the manor than the others will feel comfortable going on the first night, and thus he gets some semblance of peace and privacy. He means to open the door on the left - Room 204 - but a light catches off another knob and he finds himself drawn to it. It’s number is missing, and he kind of likes the idea of being in a numberless room. As though that meant the others would not be able to find him. He loves them, he does, but sometimes their excitement about this bullshit job exhausts him and he just wants to get this over with.

For the first time, he has to sleep in a house that actually makes him uneasy.

He shakes the thought from his mind with a scowl and a barely contained yawn. Instead he drops his bag on a chair in the corner and takes in the four poster bed ahead of him, old but surprisingly intact looking. He strips the bed and covers the mattress in a plastic cover before spreading out his sleeping bag and pillow. That taken care of, he uses his water bottle to wet his toothbrush and wash the dry, fuzzy feeling from his mouth. He gargles and flosses and washes his face, taking great care to dispose of everything in a plastic bag so he doesn’t litter. He might not believe in the paranormal, but he detests the crew he used to work with that would leave their filth everywhere just because some of their locations were “abandoned anyway”. Newt and Theseus might be exhausting, but at least they and their crew they brought with them believe in courtesy.

The only habit he didn’t agree with was that Theseus smoked, and it only irked him because he had quit solidly for two years now and the bastard of a brit was bringing back all of those old cravings he thought he had squashed down…

His fingers trembled and he gripped them tight on the sink to stop them, face lit in the mirror only by the moon’s glow through the windows and the gentle hum of his battery operated lantern.

“Get ahold of yourself, Graves,” he mutters to his reflection. “We’ll get set up, we’ll get it knocked out in a night, and we’ll get out - same as always.”

But it didn’t _feel_ the same as always…

With a grunt, he forces himself out of his traveling clothes and into something comfortable - sweatpants and a dark wife beater - and slips into his sleeping bag before any other thoughts can stop him from resting. The drive was indeed extensive, and thankfully it’s not long before he falls asleep, his lantern still humming softly.

* * *

He wakes to someone else in his bed, curled tight and unbearably hot. It’s the heat that wakes him, really. He hates to be hot. His eyes open, but everything’s blurry with sleep and he’s grouchy. He doesn’t understand why one of the others would climb into his bed, and he can’t help but growl and tuck his face into his pillow when he grumbles, “What the hell are you doing in my bed?”

“He told me to wake you.”

That… that wasn’t a voice he recognized.

All at once, his heart begins to thunder. Slowly, because it’s not like he can run or hide in his sleeping bag anyway, he blinks the fuzz from his eyes.

It’s a boy. Small, maybe somewhere between six and eight. He’s pale like the moon that filters through the windows, and his eyes are unbearably big and brown and wet. Black hair even all the way around his head, his little fists tucked under his chin. His clothing is old fashioned. Black shorts, socks tucked away in glossy black shoes, his dress shirt buttoned up to the collar and topped with a little bow, all held together with suspenders. And without a doubt, Graves knows he must be dreaming.

He blames it on that fast food joint they stopped at before the final leg to the manor house. He shouldn’t have had that burrito. He had let that unsettled feeling get to him and had let himself fall asleep thinking about it, and now he was _dreaming_ about it. That’s all.

“Who told you to what now?”

The boy just blinks back at him, unperturbed, and says, “Father. He told me to wake you.”

“Father,” Graves repeats.

The boy nods.

Graves snorts and rolls over, ignoring the shocked little “hey!” that the boy lets out when he does so. The bed dips and there’s the sound of footsteps pattering around the four poster, and he refuses to open his eyes and acknowledge the boy now standing right in front of him, peeking over the top of the tall mattress.

“Mister!” He says plaintively, “He’ll be mad if you don’t go!”

Graves stills at that, because even in dreams he can only take so much. And while he doesn’t _believe_ in the paranormal, he also thinks it wise not to piss it off, just in case.

“You want us to leave?”

The boy frowns at him cutely, as though under the impression that Graves isn’t following along better on purpose, and says, “ _Nooo!_ He wants you to _go_ to his rooms. He wants to meet you.”

Graves swallows. This was turning into one weird fucking dream.

“To his rooms,” he clarifies.

The boy nods furiously.

“Just me?”

He nods again.

“And if I don’t want to?”

The boy sucks in a quick, worried little breath.

“That’d be awful rude. Especially after you all came uninvited anyways.”

Graves sighs. He doesn’t believe in the paranormal, but he does believe in survival instincts, and even if he woke from this crazy dream, he wouldn’t be able to fall back asleep again thinking he angered spirits that probably didn’t (but may) exist. So with a weary sigh, he heaves himself from the bed. The boy bounces back onto his heels excitedly and takes his hands and — _takes his… hand…_

Graves stares down at it for a long moment, confused and sleepily trying to process what was happening. Did… did a kid get into the building? A real kid? Was someone playing a trick on them? But those clothes… It… must be a real kid. He lets out a relieved breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding and mentally chastises himself for ever falling for it. Of _course_ ghosts didn’t exist. He blames being woken cold to the situation. He blames his exhaustion.

And he intends to find the asshole who set him up and deck him.

And then report him to the police.

The boy tugs on his hand, urging him to pay attention.

“I said my name is Credence!” The boy says, frowning.

“Yea, sure kid,” he mumbles back, “And my name is Johnny Cash.”

“Nice to meet you!” The kid says, the joke flying over his head, and Graves sighs as Credence tugs on his hand again - this time urging him to follow. He takes him into the hall, and through slightly opened doors he can see the others sleeping as he passes. The kid leads him up to the door that had been locked before, and it feels like another slot of the puzzle falling into place. This was definitely a set up by some locals who thought it’d be fun to mess with the crew of the show. He’d have to tell Newt and Theseus to be more careful about who they interacted with when picking these locations. Attention from locals like this could “tamper” with their “evidence”, after all.

“He’s in there,” Credence says, stopping outside of the large double doors, and Graves grunts.

“Of course he is,” he mutters as he makes sure his phone is still on him. It is. “Joke’s on you, kid, these doors are locked—”

The doors open the moment the child turns the knob, parting before them with barely a whisper and revealing another decadent set of steps. Graves blinks.

“Go on,” Credence says cheerfully.

Graves eyes him warily.

“You’re not coming?”

“He said it was grown up business.”

“I see.”

 _Grown up business._ Graves suddenly wishes he had more than the pocket knife he always slept with in his pocket on him.

But he needs to take care of this. And it’s probably just some stupid locals, no need drawing the others from their sleep to tell some asshole father to kindly fuck off. So he climbs the stairs, unaware of the moment the doors close softly behind him. On the other side of them, Credence pets the doors softly and smiles.

“You’re going to be such a good mommy,” he whispers cheerfully, his cheeks rosy and happy. “I can tell.”

* * *

The stairs lead up to a loft secluded from the rest of the hotel. It is obviously meant for the owner of the manor house and appears to take up quite a lot of real estate from the third floor. To the left is a simple kitchenette and to the right is a small sitting area. In the middle of the room against the furthest wall there is a large bed, and unlike the other beds in the manor, it is untouched by dust. It’s covers are a color crimson the likes of which Graves has never seen, and he finds himself fascinated by the fabric. There’s a walkin closet tucked to the side and parallel to it is a large bathroom decked with a tub buried into the floor and big enough for three or four. It’s all rather luxurious and he finds himself once again baffled by the history of the house.

“You came.”

He jumps despite himself and twirls on heel to find a man sitting by the window, lazing in the plush comfort of an armchair even though he could have sworn it had been empty a mere moment ago. There’s a wine glass beside him, it’s pregnant bulb full and red, but he merely traces the delicacy of its stem with long fingers as he regards him — eyes wild and dangerous and unlike any man’s Graves has ever seen. One brown and one as pale and silvery as the hair atop his head.

After recovering from the initial surprise — hand on his breast — Graves scowls and crosses his arms seriously.

“As if your son gave me much of a choice. You know this set is private. How’d you even find out about the filming?”

The man looks him up and down again, and Graves can’t help but feel the hair stand up on the back of his neck. His palm itches for the steady weight of the knife in his pocket, but to reach for it now would be to give himself away when he had yet to actually be threatened.

The stranger tilts his head, annoyingly nonplussed, and says, “Your _private set_ happens to be my _home_.”

Graves stills.

“What are you, a squatter?”

But even as the words leave his lips, the question feels wrong. The man is dressed far too decadently — if a little too old fashioned — for that to be true. In fact, now that Graves is looking at his clothing, the man looks ready for a costume party. Once again he is struck by the certainty that this was a townsperson who had come to mess with their “investigation”; dressed like a ghost from the 1920s as he was.

“A squatter?” The man asks, rolling the word on his tongue as though searching for context before shaking his head. “Hardly. I’d love nothing more than to leave. I’m afraid it's not in the cards.”

Graves points an annoyed finger at him, his opinion made certain by the man’s seemingly purposeful word choice.

“So you _are_ messing with the investigation. Thought it’d be clever to come pretend to be a ghost and mess with the crew.”

The man thrums his fingers along the rest of his chair and smiles as though suddenly amused.

“Does that happen to you and your… _crew_ often?”

“Unfortunately,” Graves admits, and finds himself on awkward footing — unbalanced by the stranger’s nonchalance.

“I’m not surprised. Nobody believes in ghosts anymore,” the man says, “Or magic, for that matter. That special light has been snuffed from this world, though I tried so hard to fan its flame.” Then, soft beneath his breath, “Is this what you wanted, Albus? For us to become little more than fairy tales?”

“What?”

The man waves him away and stands, taking his time as though he had an abundance of it.

“My apologies about the boy,” he says suddenly as though they had never spoke of anything else. “He tends to get excited by visitors. He’s a bit too fond of playing matchmaker, the little dear.”

Graves pales. Matchmaker?

“Although he did pick quite a delicious young man for me this night, didn’t he?” And Graves is drawn from his thought by the sudden and impossible nearness of the stranger, as though he had traversed the distance between in the span of barely a second. He moves to draw away, but finds strangely that he can’t — pinned by the focus of those disturbingly piercing eyes. He can do nothing as the man raises a hand to cup his jaw and turn his face gently this way and that. It is not until a thumb finds the plushness of his bottom lip and begins to urge his mouth to part that finally Graves can pull away.

He stumbles back like a frightened horse and the stranger does not follow, but his laughter does.

“Delightfully skittish, aren’t you?”

Graves rubs his lips on the back of his hand, but he cannot erase the cold feel of that digit parting his mouth or the way he had wanted to — in a moment of insanity — suck it.

He’s tired, he decides, but his hands shake from something other than exhaustion when he hastily reaches for his phone.

“I’m calling the police,” he stammers, angry with the tremble in his voice even as he tries to steel it with confidence. “You better get your kid and leave before they get here.”

“Your pathetic _police_ have never been able to contain me,” the man says simply, as though pointing out the color of the sky, but the strangeness of the statement convinces Graves he is dealing with a madman. He stumbles back again when the stranger begins to approach once more, but he can only blink when the guy merely waves a pale fingered hand in his direction.

It’s a strange move, baffling really, and it nearly distracts him enough to cover the dying warble of his phone halfway through the first ring. It sparks in his hand after that, sharp and unnatural, and he lets it drop to the ground with a yelp. How…?

The man laughs at his shock, but never stops approaching.

Graves reaches for his pocket knife. With a flick he knows straight down to his bones, he has the blade out before him.

“Stay back!”

The man doesn’t stop, only continues to crowd him until Graves has found himself even deeper in the room, the exit further than he’d like. His eyes dart to it and not a second later, the doors slam shut of their own volition. His heart seizes. Oh God, this was _not_ the time for ghost stories to suddenly be real; but he finds it ironically fitting that they would see fit to lock him in a room with a madman.

“Ah yes, I recognize you now,” the man says, “I know those wet brown eyes — so big, so worried. I’ve _Seen_ you. How funny that Credence identified you before I did. I’ll have to reward him.”

“I said stay back, you crazy motherfucker—”

He’s cut off by a hand around his throat. Not so tight as to cut the air from his lungs, but tight enough to prove a point. His knife hand trembles beneath the vice of the stranger’s other hand, stronger than any man Graves has ever dealt with. He snarls, a dozen dirty curses hot on his tongue, only to still like a pinned insect once more the moment his eyes met the stranger’s. Ice runs through his veins, his skin fiery yet chilled by his sudden and anxious sweat.

The man’s pointer finger strokes his jawline. He shivers.

“What a foul tongue you have hidden behind such lovely lips… I’ll have to deal with that later.”

_Deal with that?_

The hand on his wrist squeezes tighter, and as though his elbow had been struck at the funnybone, his arm jolts and releases his own weapon with suspicious ease. He can feel his heart thumping beneath his skin, leaping behind his bones, feeling fit to burst. He thinks perhaps if he called, the others might hear him — but could they reach him before this madman did whatever he had in mind?

As though sensing his thoughts, the hand on his throat squeezes just the littlest bit tighter.

Graves clenches his jaw and steels his spine regardless.

“How many of you are there?” He whispers.

The stranger smiles, as though pleased.

“Just me and the boy. Why? Worried about your sleeping crew?”

Graves swallows and narrows his eyes.

“So protective,” the man muses and strokes his jaw again. “So… _motherly._ ”

He doesn’t get a chance to think about the strangeness of the observation. He is instead thrust onto the bed and pinned there beneath the gaze and very same heady weight that had stolen his breath before. He feels like a butterfly splayed out before a collector, his arms and legs held out impossibly by no visible force — but it felt like hands.

“Let us see what Credence picked out, shall we?”

He must be dreaming he thinks furiously as his clothing — by no visible physical force — began to slowly undo itself from his frame. He craned his neck to watch as his tank top began to bunch at the hem by his belly as though two thumbs had dipped beneath its edge. It even bulged as such, and his heart began to race impossibly faster as his shirt started to creep up his torso all on its own, revealing a toned belly and a hard chest. Pale and only lightly hairy, nipples pebbling from the cold.

“H-how— _aah!_ ” He flushes the moment the yelp peels from his lips, but he cannot help but shout at the sudden sensation of a thumb sweeping over one of his nipples curiously before the shirt began to rise again. He feels the hands on his wrists urge his arms above his head just as another impossibly cradles the back of his neck, helping him as the shirt continues to rise upward. Before he knows it, he is shirtless — chest bare and heaving beneath the weight of a suddenly quite hungry stare.

“Had I had my way all those years ago, this would not be such a mystery to you, sweet boy,” the man purrs, and it is only now that Graves realizes the man’s fingers have been idly moving, as though urging his shirt along. “Don’t be afraid. I won’t hurt you.”

He opens his mouth to retort smartly, only for another gasp to be torn from his throat at the feel of his pants beginning to sink in short, sharp little tugs. Exposing first the sharpness of his hip bones, then the hollow dip of his pelvis, the wiry hair that trickled down the skin there and finally the base of his cock.

“Don’t,” he gasps, only for the pants to be pulled from him all in a rush, leaving him to bounce on the bed; naked and terrified and flushing. He struggles up onto his elbows in a moment of sudden freedom only to freeze at the feel of a hand — a solid hand, _the stranger’s hand_ — scooping his cock and balls into a palm as though weighing him.

“A bit hefty, but that’ll change easily enough, I suppose.”

“Wha—”

“You’re gorgeous, otherwise. Perfect really,” he says as his hands move from cradling Graves’ junk to explore the span of his narrow hips and flat stomach. “Nearly hairless. Lithe. Almost as though…”

He trails off, and whatever thought he had lost himself on, it seems to spurr him into action. With another light flick of fingers, Percival is pulled and pushed and carried to the edge of the bed as though he weighed nothing at all. He looks again to the door, heart throbbing, and thinks to call once more — but a hand takes him by the jaw and forces him to look up into a cold pair of eyes..

“Do it and I guarantee your friends will never live to step foot outside this place.”

He clenches his jaw again lest a whimper slip free.

“Good boy,” the man says. “What’s your name, little love?”

He thinks to lie — _intends to_ — but instead he says, “Percival Graves.”

“Graves,” he purrs back, and slowly his mouth parts in a wicked, excited smile. “A pleasure to meet you, darling, my name is Gellert. Gellert Grindelwald.”

 


	2. Your Place

“How are you doing this?” Graves finally finds the words to ask, each syllable lost on a scared hush. Not quite a whisper, but not quite confident enough to be much more.

“Your kind no longer believe in us. Or perhaps we no longer even exist. It’s hard for me to say after all these years kept here... It’s a pity, honestly. What wonders we could have shown you if only Albus hadn’t lost his conviction in the end. A loss for the world, but it is not too late to open _your_ eyes, darling.”

There’s a haziness growing in the room, a pressure falling from the ceiling down as though Graves is being coddled in a heavy blanket, and he has to shake his head firmly to try and clear it – but the haze just falls upon him again, slightly heavier. His mouth parts on a lazy breath, and slowly he lifts his eyes to look upon the man standing in front of him, his jaw still cradled in Grindelwald’s palm like a beloved pet.

“You’re responding so quickly,” he muses, and there’s a strange glimmer in his eye that Graves can’t quite place – the thought fleeing any time he manages to place his finger on it. “Just like Albus used to…”

A thumb moves to stroke his bottom lip again and Graves feels warm and soft and disconnected, lids heavy and half mast as he leans forward from his perch on the edge of the bed, legs split by Grindelwald’s body, mouth just shy of sucking that digit in.

“So shy all of a sudden. Pretending as though you don’t want a taste. I know you do. I know you’re different. You want my thumb on your tongue. You want to choke on my cock.”

The haze breaks, like static fizzling – sharp and quick, then gone – and Graves barely has a moment for his eyes to go wide and to jerk away before the hand at his jaw sweeps to catch him by the back of his skull and hold him in place, preventing him from backing up.

“Wha– No, fucking _stop,”_ he snarls, heels digging at the carpet to back up, but with Grindelwald between his knees he can’t get the right leverage. Everything about his position is awkward and disadvantageous, and his breath begins to whistle through the wide flare of his nostrils as panic builds hot and heavy in his lungs. “Get the _fuck_ away!”

“Hush now, darling. You don’t have to pretend any longer,” Grindelwald purrs, and the shout that had lodged itself in Graves’ throat – to wake the others, to get help, _anything_ – dies in a soft puff of a whine as the haze descends again. This time hotter, this time heavier, as though tailored to his resistance. “I see you for what you are.”

“No,” he manages to gasp, “Stop,” but each uttered word sounds less like panic and more like a dreamy sigh, the significance of the diction lost on aimless motivation.

“You’re going to be a good boy now and suck my cock, aren’t you, darling?”

Graves does not quite nod, he’s not quite gone, but his mouth lulls open on a wordless, confused little mewl as those hands that once restricted him leave the hair at the nape of his neck to instead free Grindelwald’s cock from his trousers.

The moment his cock springs free, a sparkle of sentient thought blooms in the darkness of Graves mind where he howls against the haze – suppressed and helpless. A thought that says: _that is no normal fucking cock._ A thought that thinks: _that’s fucking huge_ and _what the fuck is this guy taking_ and _there’s no way that’s normal_ . He’s seen porn star dick. This rivals those lengths, just on the edge of truly monstrous – _just_ small enough to still be realistic but large enough and thick enough and long enough to suck away what little breath Graves still has in his lungs. And at its base, only somewhat enlarged and mostly unassuming, there was the smallest, strangest hint of a swell that had a unidentifiable bell ringing in Graves’ mind.

But as quickly as that sentient thought sparks, it flickers – lost beneath the haze and the heavy weight of Grindelwald’s expecting gaze.

Cotton fills his mind. His mouth wets. He licks his lips and above him, Grindelwald chuckles. The haze is deeper now. The air in the room feels like water, making Graves slow and lethargic, caught at a river’s whim. The man’s hand is at the back of his head again, slowly pulling him forward, and with each inch gained Graves finds his mouth opening a little more.

The head of Grindelwald’s cock presses to his lips and spark of something – a shout, a howl – streaks through Graves’ mind. A short whimper passes through his teeth, short and confused and conflicted, jaw not quite open enough to allow that colossal length in. But the hand at his neck brushed through the short hair of his scalp kindly, and Graves could not help but look up into the eyes of the man that had him so thoroughly caught. Mismatched eyes, deceivingly kind – and beneath the lie – desperately hungry.

“Such a good boy for me. So soft, so obedient. Go ahead. Suckle it. You know you want to find out what it tastes like.”

As though he needed nothing more than permission, Graves finds his mouth slipping open slowly around the swollen, throbbing glans of the man, tongue already tipped between his teeth to meet the cock’s wet slit the moment it enters. He tongues it, slow and gentle at first; curious, learning. At Grindelwald’s soft moan, Graves let another inch slip in, mouthing and sucking softly at the thick head in his mouth. A pressure grows in his crotch – low and unassuming – and it’s easy to dismiss it as the beginnings of arousal. His mate is quite well endowed, after all. It’s hard not to react to such a length in his mouth, he thinks. It makes the growing pressure less embarrassing. He doesn’t give it another thought.

_That isn’t what will give him relief, after all–_

His eyes widen at the foreign thought, but Grindelwald gives him no reprieve. The hand in his hair tightens ever so slightly to control Graves’ panicked retreat, only to push him further along his length. Another two inches slide in and around the cock in his mouth Graves gurgles beautifully. Grindelwald lifts his chin, eyes caught down the length of his nose upon his soon to be mate, and purrs deeply.

“It’s too late to go back now, darling. Just let me in. It’ll be so much more pleasant if you do.”

One hand stays in his hair at the back of his head. The other sweeps forward to trace the wet ‘o’ of his mouth, soft and awed, as though he were a work of art.

Graves gurgles on an outraged sound. Grindelwald smiles as though the panicked noise had been a pleasant thing, something sweet rather than afraid.

“Can you feel it? It’s started, hasn’t it? Fuck, you’re going to be so gorgeous. So _perfect_.”

Graves can do nothing as more of that cock slides in. As the tingling in his crotch builds, not quite like an erection but overwhelming all the same. It feels pleasurable, but subdued. He thinks he might spill soon, but the feeling is not accompanied with that pain-pleasure coil in his gut that leads to the eventual mind numbing white-noise crescendo of orgasm. Instead it is like a steady humming, constant – not quite nothing, but not enough.

It leaves him writhing, hips wriggling in place on the bed, unable to find what he needs to build the fire that won’t quite start. He can’t even look down to see if he’s properly hard or not, his jaw caught as it is on fingers and cock.

All he can do is guess.

He’s got half the man’s dick in his mouth, probably a good hearty five inches, and Graves can’t help but look cross-eyed down his nose at the thing and think: _Jesus, it’s only halfway in_.

Above him, Grindelwald chuckles and croons.

“Yes, you can take it,” he says, and not for the first time Graves wonders if the man can read his mind.

Grindelwald presses forward and a panicked burst of thought bubbles up through the haze that smothers Graves, eyes rimmed pink and wide.

_I’m going to choke. I’m going to die if he keeps going._

But he doesn’t. The feeling of relief goes hand in hand with a terrible dread as he feels his throat relax around the invading dick, each breath through his nose calm and smooth – timed perfectly with Grindelwald’s growing rhythm as finally he begins to move. Cutting off, held, then deep with each retracting movement.

“You’re doing so well,” Grindelwald says from above, lashes fluttering at the sight of him, lips curled like a cat toying with its meal.

Every thrust takes him a little deeper and each time, Graves’ throat opens a little more and a little more. It’s weird, strange almost, to be used like this. It is not for his own pleasure, but here – caught in the haze and the weight of Grindelwald’s praise – Graves can’t help but feel as though his skin is alive with pleasure. Not carnal pleasure, but the pleasure of success. He is doing well for his mate. His mate is close, he can feel it every time the man’s dick catches ever so slightly on his teeth.

So lost is he in the pleasure of praise, he does nothing but let the man’s cock slip from his lips in a soft hush of wetness and a little mewl, a string of saliva connecting that weeping head with his mouth, when finally Grindelwald pulls away. He looks up at him with big eyes, confused – he thought he was doing well – and Grindelwald chuckles fondly.

“It’s too soon to knot that pretty face, darling,” Grindelwald says, “I don’t want to frighten you. I want you to enjoy this. But first–”

He steps back to take himself in hand and begins to jerk himself to the sight of Graves, debauched and pliant and slack-mouthed. Lips pink and ruddy and swollen, glossy with spit and Grindelwald’s excitement. Naked and obedient and only half hard.

The man bites his lip and hisses out a note of satisfaction, a sound pregnant with control and confidence, and purrs as his cock leaps in his hand, engorging if possibly larger in the seconds before his orgasm.

Graves merely watches, stunned, as though disconnected from himself as the pale figure lines his cock up over Graves’ own to spill his seed upon him, hand massaging his knot to control its swell.

Perhaps it is the heat or the embarrassment, the sheer debasement of the action; but Graves finds the static of his mind receding as he watches Grindelwald pump load after load onto his own semi-erection, wilting his dick with each added glob.

“Wha–”

His question sucks in on a hiss as pleasure blooms in his softening groin. He tosses his head back, eyes rolling, unable to stop the jerking of his hips as he leans back to brace himself on his elbows and thrusts into the air. It’s a useless motion, the air does nothing to appease the burning in his genitals. He aches like his longest stretch of abstinence and he _wants, he wants, he wants._ He’s never felt so on edge, so frayed, so pent up. And yet despite the yearning coiling in his gut, his dick softens to its normal flaccid length.

“Omegas don’t require big cocks like yours, darling. But don’t worry,” Grindelwald says as he drops his own still hard and throbbing length to lean down and scoop Graves’ cock and balls into his hand. He takes his thumb and sweeps over the petal pink glans of Graves’ cock, rubbing his semen in, and chuckles at the utterly wrecked whine that earns him from his mate to be. “Your body knows what needs to be done. It just needed a little… _push_.”

“St-sto-aah!” Every word, every protest melts in Graves’ mouth.

His hips roll, but nothing touches him. He needs to release, he’s so close, but his dick feels so fucking tight; as though Grindelwald’s open hand were in fact crushing it instead of cradling him like something delicate to be fawned over. He needs that hand to stroke him. To clench just right and _help him_. But the man just holds him, still and clinical, and when Graves manages to crane his head up enough to look, Grindelwald is watching his cock as though watching life itself first bloom into existence.

“Magnificent,” Grindelwald whispers. “It is _you_ . Come for me, darling. _Be mine._ ”

Graves’ arms give out beneath him as his balls draw high and tight and throbbing. He has never felt an orgasm like this, as though his balls were a faucet opened too wide too soon. He has never expelled so much before, his vision white from the sheer wall of pleasure that rises from its passing. He feels pump after pump of thick release burst from his dick – still so soft and so tender and so _wrong_ – and long after the moment his orgasm should have ended, he feels it holding steady.

Lips bit raw and tender, finally he can contain the howl in his throat no more. He screams, lost to the whiteness of his bliss, and writhes in the live-wire current of the pleasure forced upon him. A gibbering voice in his mind says he will not survive this. He has never held a feeling like this for so long and he can feel more and more of him burning away. It aches – in his bones, in his skin. His lap is sopping, fluid pooling and leaking from the cup of Grindelwald’s palm. First gorgeous, healthy spurts of white – then lighter and lighter until something clear and thick and viscous is all that remains – dripping between his thighs and down the soft skin of his perineum to creep toward his clenching hole.

When it ends, he falls boneless to the mattress, eyes wide and blind and unblinking like a doll. His chest heaves. Silence falls. Somewhere in the manor, his friends sleep blissfully. He is forgotten. Forgotten by all but the man who seeks to swallow him whole.

Grindelwald sucks in a heated noise through his teeth and exhales slowly. As Graves’ sight returns, he just catches sight of a pink tongue tracing the line of Grindelwald’s hungry lips. His eyes smoulder in the darkness. Graves has never seen anything like him.

The hand cupping him weighs him like it had when first the man had disrobed him. Above him, Grindelwald hums; a noise that quickly bleeds into a greedy moan of satisfaction.

“So receptive, so perfect, _my Omega_.”

It takes every ounce of energy Graves has left to climb up onto his elbows and look down the shuddering line of his body to see what the man is talking about. It takes ages, his stomach clenching in a dread he can’t even fathom but feels all the same, only for him to freeze at the sight before him.

His cock has shrunk. Not in the way one might expect after orgasm – _if he had even been hard_ – finished and satisfied and pink. No. It has _shrunk_ visibly. Where Graves had been a quite nearly above average man before, he was truly straddling the thin, thin line of average if one were being generous. In inches he had lost at least two or three from his length, a smidge from his girth. And his balls had shrank as well, modest and shy and far closer to his body than they had been that morning.

“What the _fuck_ ?!” He snarls and moves to scramble up the bed, away, _fuck it has to be a dream, it has to_ , only to be snatched by an ankle and dragged back to his place at the edge of the bed.

Grindelwald is quick to crawl atop him, to frame him, to crowd him into submission. He pins him to the bed without using his hands. The sheer bulk of him alone is enough. The way he holds himself, the way he leers, the way he patiently waits until Graves has no more energy left with which to struggle. It is only when his Omega has fallen pretty and still and panting beneath him that speaks.

“You’re afraid,” he says, eyes roving over him like a present to be opened, like a puzzle to be pulled apart and put back together. Graves shivers.

“Of course I’m fucking afraid,” he snaps, his gibbering terror held tightly together by the only weapon he had left – his tongue. “What the fuck have you done? Let me go!”

“There’s no reason to be afraid,” Grindelwald purrs, ignoring his venom, his fury. “You’ll be perfect soon, and then you’ll understand.”

“Understand what?” Graves asks, and regrets it before he even says it.

Grindelwald grins and leans down to lick a long, slow line over Graves’ lips.

“Your place,” he whispers.

The haze rises up again.


End file.
